


Breach of Privilege

by Kainosite



Category: Political RPF - UK 21st c.
Genre: Birching, Bollocking, Consent Issues, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/pseuds/Kainosite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bercow has finally had enough of Gove, and gives him a good hiding.  Warnings for graphic depiction of a pretty severe punishment spanking administered with dubious consent, and a thorough bollocking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breach of Privilege

The Secretary of State for Education trudged through the corridors of Westminster Palace and thought dark and bloody thoughts about the Speaker of the House.

Up until fifteen minutes ago Michael had been having a good day. The Second Reading of the Education Bill had gone very well. Burnham had indulged in his usual argument from ideology rather than the numbers, with the result that he looked dogmatic, defensive, and ill-informed. He'd also missed a golden opportunity to throw the TIMSS findings into the fray, a spectacular oversight in Michael's opinion, since they were the one set of statistics that supported the argument that Labour had done something more for education over the past thirteen years than talk it up in stump speeches and hand out millions of pounds to consultants and quangos. He'd been all set to refute them and then Burnham hadn't even bothered to bring them up; he almost felt disappointed.

The Lib Dem backbenchers had been less of a nuisance than they might have been, and aside from the surreal experience of listening to David Blunkett accuse him of seizing power and impinging on people's liberties, there hadn't been many unpleasant surprises from Labour either. In a display of great integrity and public spiritedness, Barry Sheerman had even joined them in the Ayes Lobby. Michael hoped that Sheerman's colleagues on the opposition benches would learn from his example rather than raking him over the coals for it, although given their knee-jerk hostility to anything the Government proposed, he rather doubted it. He was almost tempted to assign the poor man an escort home, lest the whips jump him in the car park.

Michael had been treated to a few rounds of champagne in the Tea Room while he basked in the warm glow of everyone's congratulations, and he was heading back to his ministry- he was actually physically in the act of putting on his coat- when his Blackberry buzzed with a tersely worded summons from Bercow. If he'd been alone Michael would simply have pretended not to get the message until tomorrow morning. It was five past eleven at night; there was no earthly reason why Bercow should expect him to be on call at this hour. But in his surprise he'd made the mistake of reading out the text to his companions, and after enduring some good-natured jeering and catcalls from his amused colleagues he found he had no choice but to bid them good night, put his coat back on its hook and make his solitary way back through the deserted Members' Lobby to Bercow's office.

There wasn't much that could make this meeting less appealing. The Speaker had not, Michael suspected, called him in to congratulate him on the success of his bill, and if he was summoning Michael _now_ he must have felt his grievance was urgent. Of course there was a yawning chasm between what Bercow _thought_ was crucially important and what actually _was_ , but it meant Michael was probably in for a first class bollocking, which he would have to meekly endure while somehow managing to conceal his contempt for the self-righteous little windbag. What a way to ruin an otherwise lovely evening.

But somehow Bercow had managed to find the one thing that could make the meeting even worse. Michael ran into it the Commons chamber, scuffing at the carpeting with its toe and glowering sulkily at the Speaker's chair. When the door closed behind him, Andy Burnham jumped, whirled round, and did a rather comical double take.

"You're here too?"

"No, I'm a hologram," Michael said, rolling his eyes. Of all the idiotic questions.

"11:20 meeting with Bercow?"

"That's right." At least Burnham's presence meant he hadn't botched the bill somehow. Michael had been very careful, but one could never be certain. But if Bercow meant to rebuke both of them his complaint must be about today's debate.

"For both of us." Burnham tried to scowl, which on his face came off as more of a pout. "This is ridiculous. I feel like I'm being called before the head for fighting. Ed and I were going to get pissed and talk about how shit you are and now I've had to cancel; I hope you're happy."

"My gosh, Burnham, that sounds like a wonderful evening you had planned. I'm terribly sorry to hear your slagging-me-off date has been interrupted, although I don't quite see how it's my doing. I had better places to be myself, you know." Michael shot the Speaker's chair a metonymic glare of his own. "He wasn't even in the chamber for the second half of the debate. Why is he calling us in for a carpeting tonight?"

"It _is_ televised, you twat."

"He's the Speaker, Burnham, I don't expect he watches the debates he's _not_ compelled to attend," Michael pointed out as he followed Burnham around the chair to Bercow's office.

"There's that Tory work ethic for you. Fine, then. Maybe Lindsay grassed. Whatever. It doesn't matter, the point is now we're both about to get a bollocking and it's all your fault. I wouldn't have had to go so long if you hadn't taken for-fucking-ever."

That wasn't even true. Burnham's speech had obviously been prepared, it wasn't a rebuttal.

"Perhaps if your Government's record had been better I would have less to talk about."

"Perhaps if your _bill_ had been better you wouldn't have wasted so much time bitching about our record instead of answering questions."

"I didn't answer questions? I'm still waiting to hear which EU nations don't have a core academic curriculum."

Burnham went to rap on the door of Bercow's office so he could avoid responding to this point.

"Come in," Bercow called from inside, and Michael reluctantly trailed Burnham into the room. He really didn't want to be forced to make another groveling apology before the House, especially since, as far as he could tell, he hadn't done anything wrong. Sure, he'd annoyed a few Labourites, but that was his _job_. He might have taken advantage of the opportunity to slide in a few extra jibes, but that was a parliamentary tradition going back centuries. Why, he'd even been non-partisan today and had a go at Leigh! Bercow had no legitimate grounds for complaint, and he would find that his long-standing goal of making Parliament _boring_ would meet with fierce opposition from both sides of the House.

"Mr. Burnham. Mr. Gove," Bercow said, looking up at them from his desk. The usual beaming smile was noticeably absent.

Dear Lord, he really was diminutive when he sat in a normal chair, wasn't he? It was like getting lectured by Bilbo Baggins. Michael went to take a seat, but Bercow raised a cautionary finger. Apparently he wanted to keep them standing like naughty schoolchildren. Well, if he want to be towered over that was his business, Michael thought; that was a power play that might backfire.

"I'm most grateful you could join me," Bercow said. "I have called you in here tonight because I have had a number of complaints about today's debate and I feel that finally, enough is enough. Mr. Gove, I have tried to lead you gently back onto the path of righteousness from the Speaker's chair, but if you won't be led I'm afraid you must be pushed, and I mean to do it before this Education Bill reaches the Report stage and we have a reprise of today's disgraceful display. The overlong speeches, the constant interventions and sedentary chuntering during Mr. Burnham's speeches while refusing to take any interventions in your own- this behavior cannot continue. You are making productive debate impossible and you've become a corrupting influence on Mr. Burnham, who has begun picking up the same bad habits since he began shadowing you.

"And all this is excluding the content of your answers, which have been patronizing, provocative and largely uninformative. I have sat in this House for nearly fifteen years, and in all that time I have never seen such extraordinary behavior from a minister. The contempt that you have demonstrated for this House and for your colleagues over the past six months is unprecedented in my experience. If you are trying to demonstrate that poor discipline is disruptive to constructive dialogue, Mr. Burnham has assured you that those measures of your policy have broad support from both sides of the House, so I think we may disperse with the theatrics in future. I'm sure you will agree that we do not need a parliamentary Lauren Cooper on the Government front bench."

Burnham sniggered; so much for Labourite solidarity in the face of the boss.

"I do agree, Mr. Speaker, but I hardly think my behavior qualifies me for such an epithet. I-'

"Order. You'll have your chance to speak in a moment. Mr. Burnham, I called you in here to caution you. You have striven to maintain a high tone in the face of some extreme provocation, and I commend your efforts, but I have noticed you gradually slipping into Mr. Gove's tactics and I must give you fair warning. I am well aware who started this fight, but from this point forward I will have zero tolerance for ad hominem attacks, for pointless digressions on the personal or political inadequacies of the Members opposite, for speeches that go over the alloted time, for refusals to take interventions from backbenchers, for sedentary chuntering and constant interruptions. We are legislators, not entertainers, and I will have no patience whatsoever with theatrics that impede our ability to attend to the day's business.

"If Mr. Gove steps out of line, _I_ will deal with him. Do not allow him to draw you in unless you want to find yourself called in this office again. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Mr. Speaker."

"Very well. You're free to go."

Burnham looked slightly regretful at this announcement, like he'd prefer to stay and hear the rest of Michael's bollocking, but he obediently turned and fled, leaving Michael alone with the Speaker.

"Can I defend myself now?" Michael asked.

Bercow snorted. "I doubt it."

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant, Mr. Gove, but as usual we find your intentions at odds with what you say. If you absolutely must mount an apologia I will hear you out, but I should warn you it's not in your own best interest. I've heard quite enough of your speeches today, and I suspect another one in which you deny your blatant misconduct will only serve to irritate me."

"I suppose I'm to stand here dumbly and let you castigate me for another twenty minutes, then," Michael said bitterly.

Bercow raised his eyebrows. "Stand there? No, not exactly. Over the past few months you've convinced me you are impervious to remonstration."

"Then with all due respect, Mr. Speaker, what is the point of this meeting?"

"Knowing you to be a faithful and dedicated public servant, I am certain that you have no _wish_ to disrupt the proceedings of the House, to abuse the patience of your fellow Members, or to fail in your ministerial duties. You have simply been overcome by your admirable passion for debate and your fierce loyalty to your Government, and in the heat of the moment you find it difficult to remember the courtesy you owe your colleagues." Bercow flashed him the characteristic Bercow smile. "You will be relieved to learn that I intend to help you by supplying an aid to your memory."

Relief was not the primary emotion Michael felt at this announcement.

"I'm grateful as ever for your instruction, Mr. Speaker-"

"So you should be. I'm sure you'd be the first to agree that the key to success, in the schoolroom and in the House of Commons, is proper discipline, which is what we shall endeavor to instill in you tonight. To that end, I went out this afternoon and cut this."

He stood up and pulled from the bin in the corner a dripping bundle of sticks, which he casually shook off on the Persian carpet- good God, no wonder his expenses were always so high- and held up for Michael's inspection.

Michael found himself completely speechless. He recognized the birch, of course. He was Secretary of State for Education and a keen student of history, and all right, maybe his interest in corporal punishment wasn't entirely academic. But he was having a great deal of trouble wrapping his brain around the idea that Bercow had one in his office, and apparently intended to use it on _him_. Unfortunately incomprehension did nothing to assuage the surge of terror the implement engendered. Michael's stomach flipped over and then started to crawl up into his throat.

It wasn't as if he had never had fantasies like this- except not with a birch; Michael was a traditionalist but that was a bit _Tom Brown's Schooldays_ even for him, and not, obviously, with _Bercow_ ; his choice of disciplinarian had usually been a stern, disappointed David at his most steely and ministerial, or occasionally and guiltily the Member for Morley and Outwood- but it was one thing to fantasize about someone giving him a good thrashing and entirely another to find someone actually proposing to _do_ it. Having fantasized about it made it worse. If he'd never contemplated such things he would probably have burst out laughing, but having spent some of Eric's drearier reports imagining David sweeping the glasses off the Cabinet table, taking Michael by the scruff of the neck and bending him over for six of the best, Bercow's plan had slid into the realm of the possible.

Just not into the realm of the plausible or the likely. Or for that matter, into the realm of the legal. Why on earth did he expect Michael to go along with this?

"I see you know what this is. If you'd be so good as to take your trousers down and bend over my desk, we might get the necessary unpleasantness over with,' Bercow suggested.

Michael finally found words. "You've got to be joking."

"No, Mr. Gove. I'm sorry to resort to this, but you've left me with very little choice, and I'm afraid you don't have much choice either. You've been asking for this for six months. Let's just get through it so we can turn over a new leaf, hm?"

"But- you can't just arbitrarily- you're not allowed- and people call _me_ a megalomaniac! Being the Speaker doesn't give you the right to flog me!"

Bercow sat down again, placing the birch in front of him and steepling his fingers. He smiled up at Michael cheerfully.

"The Speaker has the power to reprimand breaches of privilege committed in his presence without any previous order of the House. You may look it up in Erskine May if you like."

"I am quite certain it doesn't say anything about fucking _birches_ in Erskine May!" Michael snapped, a little hysterically.

"Language, Mr. Gove. No, this is a parliamentary tradition that the honorable Members have understandably wished to keep out of the public domain. The Speaker does, however, keep a log book of the punishments, and I can assure you that you are part of an unbroken chain stretching back at least to the sixteenth century."

The hypocritical _wanker_. Oh, how dare he. Michael folded his arms across his chest and glared at him.

"You cannot imagine my surprise and delight to find you such a firm defender of tradition, Mr. Speaker, in light of some of your previous statements to the House, especially in instances when our noble traditions touched on your own comfort. For example the matter of the Speaker's wig?"

Bercow raised his eyebrows. "I should be very careful, Mr. Gove."

No attempt to address the argument, of course.

"I don't see why! If I say nothing I'm going to be birched!"

Michael eyed the implement warily. It didn't look like the pictures of birches he'd seen in books. They seemed a lot softer, for one thing, sort of twiggy, like ragged whisk brooms. This one looked like more like a _fasces_ tied together at only one end, fortunately omitting the axe. It consisted of six thin, unpleasantly whippy looking sticks bound into a bouquet with gaffer tape, and Michael suspected it would hurt like hell. He tried to rally his gibbering brain into supplying him with some manner of rational defense.

"This is assault. It can't possibly be legal."

Bercow gave him his 'Nice try, but you know perfectly well that is not a Point of Order' look.

"You will find that when ordered by a lawful authority, chastisement or correction in the public interest does not constitute assault under British law."

 _British_ law. Oh. Oh, he was saved. Michael grinned with relief, feeling slightly weak at the knees.

"But this is inhuman and degrading punishment, surely. Even if it were legal under British law, the European Convention on Human Rights would never sanction it."

"The House is voting on Thursday on whether we should reject the ruling from the Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg that we must give prisoners the vote. May I ask your stance on that question?"

Shit. That debate _would_ be this week.

"Obviously I think that's a matter for Parliament to decide and no, of course I don't want to give rapists and murderers the vote, but that's a entirely separate issue! Look, you just- It's the twenty-first century! You can't _do_ things like this!"

"Not without your consent," Bercow agreed amicably. That should have settled the matter, since he did not have it and certainly would not get it, but from Bercow's expectant expression the matter seemed less than settled. Michael squirmed under the Speaker's steady gaze, and after a few seconds of awkward silence, cracked.

"Supposing I say no?"

"Then the next infraction will result in your suspension, which will disgrace your Government, and, I suspect, deprive you of your primary form of entertainment. This is an eventuality I am sure we would all wish to avoid."

A suspension? Oh God. David would murder him. And the Speaker had the power to do it on a pretext. He wouldn't get away with it; they'd been hoping for months that Bercow would slip and do something so outrageously biased that they could sack him, and this would easily qualify. But Michael would still be suspended. He didn't want to be the human sacrifice to bait the trap, and so he would be, if he drew the Government into another scandal. David would drag him to the top of the Victoria Tower, cut out his heart with an obsidian blade and _eat_ it.

"That's not fair!" he burst out, knowing he sounded about thirteen and hating himself for it. But avoiding the birch was looking increasingly impossible, and he could barely hear himself think over his thudding heartbeat. Fear was making him lightheaded.

"I advise you to take your punishment, Mr. Gove, or you will find out exactly how unfair I can be."

Michael looked at the birch again. How bad could it be, really? They'd used it on schoolchildren. And juvenile delinquents and naval cadets and other people who were probably a lot harder than he was, an unhelpful portion of his brain reminded him, and it apparently had a salutary effect. Oh God. It was like six canes bound together; it was going to be excruciating.

Was he seriously considering agreeing to this? But it would be over in a few minutes, and how could he possibly face David if he dragged the Government into another scandal? It wouldn't be his fault if Bercow framed him, but they were Conservatives, they didn't accept excuses, and beneath David's fury there would be that look of _disappointment_. He couldn't bear it.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and started unbuckling his belt.

"All right. All right. I'll do it."

He wanted to ask for leniency, to point out that he'd only ever been belted twice and never more than four strokes and even criminals didn't get birched these days and even if they were setting aside the European Convention on Human Rights Bercow really ought to go easy on him, but he couldn't think of any way to phrase it that didn't make him sound like a romance novel heroine about to be ravished. He could take this, couldn't he? He'd stood up to bullies as a schoolboy- or, not stood up to so much as been tortured by, but _survived_ , that was the key point. Pain was nothing new to him.

Aragorn wouldn't beg for mercy, he reminded himself, dusting off his old strategy for navigating childhood bullies, which had stood him in good stead since he'd joined the Conservative front bench. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Bercow rose, taking the birch with him, and gestured expansively for Michael to lay himself across the desk. He did as he was bidden and found a monitor and keyboard and a jar of pens sitting the floor on the far side. Bercow had been so confident Michael would accede to his absurd demand that he'd cleared his desk _before_ the meeting.

The condescending _bastard_. As he slipped his trousers and briefs down to his knees, the true humiliation of his easy submission broke over Michael like a cold wave. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks and wished desperately he had the courage or at least the insouciance to tell the Speaker to go to Hell, the Government be damned, but the thought of David's anger kept the words choked in his throat. All he could do was lie meekly on top of Bercow's blotter, his chin resting on his folded arms and his arse bared to the cool air, and wish desperately for the ordeal to be over.

Of course abjectly bending over for a beating wasn't enough embarrassment for one night. The heady mix of humiliation and terror sent his blood rushing somewhere else as well, and to Michael's horror he found himself half-hard. His only consolation was that his penis had considerately waited until he had a desk in front of him to disguise its indecent display. If he'd gotten a stiffie when Bercow first pulled out the birch, or God forbid, in front of _Burnham_ , he would probably have suffered a cerebral hemorrhage then and there from sheer mortification.

"I appreciate your cooperation. If you'd be good enough to remain in that position until I release you, we can get this over with as quickly and with as little fuss as possible."

Bercow walked up behind Michael and folded his suit jacket and his shirt tails up onto his back, leaving his arse uncomfortably exposed. Michael closed his eyes and prayed that the Speaker would fail to notice his swelling erection or at least have the basic human decency to refrain from commenting on it, and for the first time that night it seemed luck was on his side. Bercow backed away again without thanking him for his enthusiasm or making any other ghastly jokes at Michael's expense.

"We'll start with a dozen, I think, and see how we get on," the Speaker said. That was Michael's only warning before he heard the swish of the birch being swung and the switches slammed against his backside.

Michael almost stood up in shock. He'd expected agony, but this was completely bearable. The blow stung, but no worse than a hard slap. He'd suffered worse pain from his aftershave. This was going to be a doddle! Thank goodness he hadn't come over all Braveheart and dared Bercow to suspend him, that would have been a terrible misjudgment. He grinned to himself and relaxed a little.

Two was a sharper sting, like a paper cut. Maybe Bercow had needed time to get warmed up. Still, the pain was tolerable. As long as it didn't get much worse-

Oh, it did get worse. Michael winced and clenched his buttocks together.

Ow, ow, ow. Tensing definitely didn't help. Either Bercow was really putting his back into it now, or the repeated blows were doing something sinister to his poor bum, because the pain seemed to be multiplying with every stroke.

Five felt like a bee sting, if a bee could sting his entire bottom simultaneously. Those wretched switches got everywhere; there wasn't a single bit of him that didn't hurt. Michael gasped at the sharp pain and buried his head in his arms to hide the involuntary tears that were springing up in the corners of his eyes.

The next blow had him clutching his elbows desperately tight to avoid writhing around on the desktop like a worm on a hook. How could it hurt so much? A minute ago the birch had felt like a bundle of sticks. Now it felt like a bundle of red-hot wires. Had Bercow accidentally soaked it in acid instead of water?

Seven drew a cry of pain from him and his reflexive jerk away from the source of his torment knocked him over onto his side. He lost his footing for a moment and slid halfway off the desk, banging his ribs painfully on the edge. Michael straightened up again and groped blindly for the far side of the desk; without something to hold on to he didn't think he'd be able to keep himself upright for another five strokes.

Having something hard to grip helped. The next stroke felt like Bercow had turned a flamethrower on him, but he concentrated on maintaining his white-knuckled grip on the far rim of the desk, and the pain felt a little more manageable.

The next blow was less manageable.

The next blow was less manageable still, and Michael felt a tear trickle down his cheek. He yelped again and couldn't seem to stop, the sound trailing off into a long, keening moan. When he tried to bite it back he choked himself on the lump in his throat and started sobbing. The pain was unbearable. How many more blows did he have left? Two? Three? He'd lost count.

Now it felt more like a radioactive flamethrower, or a flamethrower full of bees that were on fire, or Bercow taking up a flaming sword and just slicing into him. Michael was losing his grip on figurative speech. Oh God, it had to stop soon, it had to.

Bercow hit him again, and pain exploded against his backside like a supernova, and Michael screamed and sobbed and held on to the desk for dear life and waited for the next blow to fall. He was sufficiently disoriented that it took him almost a minute to notice that there had been an uncharacteristically long delay. It wasn't until Bercow spoke that he realized he'd had stroke twelve.

"Now, I thought we'd have a little discussion about your unparliamentary behavior. I suspect you know what you've been doing wrong, and if you don't, I listed a few of your errors earlier. Would you care to start us off?"

"You can't possibly expect me to carry on a conversation in this condition!" Michael said indignantly, or as indignantly as he could when he was sniffling between every third word.

"If you'd like me to give you the next round now-"

Next _round_? "No! No no no no. No, please, please Mr. Speaker, I'd love to discuss any topic you see fit. At great length, if possible."

"I thought you would," Bercow said. Michael could actually _hear_ him smiling, the sadistic bastard. "What have you done wrong? Be as complete as possible; you'll get a cut of the birch every time I have to prompt you."

"Not giving the backbenchers enough time to speak," Michael put in hastily. Bercow's favorite hobby-horse was always a safe bet.

"Very good. And that's wrong why?"

Bloody good question, in Michael's opinion. Half the Conservative backbenchers were unspeakable reactionaries, and the Labour ones were a motley band of unreconstructed Trotskyites, disgraced ex-ministers, and neanderthals too thick to string a sentence together. And then there were the Members from all the regional parties who couldn't seem to resist plaguing the House with local rubbish no one else cared about. There were a few worthy pensioners scattered around, but by and large people were consigned to the back benches for a _reason_. And they were so badly _informed_ ninety percent of the time. It hadn't taken Michael more than six months to get off the back benches, and he didn't see why he should have to listen to anyone who couldn't manage the same achievement. In terms of moving the debate forward it was far more constructive for him to engage with Burnham directly than to take a series of nonsensical interventions about trivia, as Bercow's much referenced but never consulted 'the public' would no doubt agree.

That answer was going to get his backside turned into mincemeat, though.

"It's important that the concerns of every constituency are fairly represented and that debate be informed by a broader range of experience than that possessed by the Shadow Secretary, who after all has never had a job outside- Aagh!"

He genuinely had not expected to get swished for that. Michael had to rest his head on his arm and whimper for a few seconds while the burning agony receded a little.

"You're trying my patience, Mr. Gove, but that answer was essentially correct. It is vital that we seek the input of _all_ the honorable Members, no just those who grace the Government or Opposition front benches. It is the only way for the Government to keep abreast of local concerns and to understand the full diversity of opinion in the country. Your myopic focus on your opposite number was barely tolerable in an Opposition spokesman; it is absolutely unacceptable in a minister. You must take more interventions and stop interrupting your shadow every five minutes, and for Heaven's sake you must try to be a bit more concise. I know you fancy yourself an engaging orator- and indeed you are- but we do eventually weary of the sound of your voice, Mr. Gove, although I realize the possibility may not have occurred to you. You would do well to remember that brevity is the soul of wit."

Michael took the point about the backbenchers, even if he didn't agree with it, but that was just unfair. "Ed Balls always used to run over, you always let _him_!"

"Mr. Ball's answers are always topical, and he seeks to impart as much information as possible. The unfortunate consequence of his thoroughness is that his speeches frequently run overlong, but I have every confidence that the intent is to inform rather than to misdirect. The primary objective behind _your_ prolixity appears to be to throw up as much verbal chaff as possible so that you can avoid giving anyone concrete answers, which needless to say is a motive with which I am much less sympathetic."

Before Michael could defend himself Bercow brought the birch down again, and then five more times in rapid succession. It felt like Michael had sat in a furnace, or possibly the heart of the sun. He howled and writhed across the surface of the desk and dribbled snot all over his suit and Bercow's blotter. Bercow let him catch his breath and then prodded him gently.

"Next? You demonstrated it just now, just prior to your attempt to establish a false equivalency between yourself and Mr. Balls."

"Um." He honestly had no idea. He could scarcely remember what he'd said two minutes ago, much less figure out why it had angered the Speaker. That last round of punishment had been like a volcanic eruption, flattening the previous conversational landscape and covering it over with a layer of burning lava. Trying to recall what preceded it was like trying to excavate Pompeii. He could make out vague outlines, but everything was encased in solid rock. Bercow had hit him for something, hadn't he? He'd asked why they had to listen to the stupid backbenchers, and then Michael had said... oh.

"Saying unkind things about the Member for Leigh?"

"Irrelevant asides to make ad hominem attacks on your opponents. Mr. Burnham's life experience may well influence his judgement about the prospects of young people going out to seek employment, and I welcome your insights on that subject when they are relevant to the matter at hand. It has nothing _whatsoever_ to do with the general question of why backbenchers must be heard. And why is this sort of cheap party political point scoring wrong, Mr. Gove?"

"It wastes time that the backbenchers could use to put questions?" he ventured. That was never going to be the _wrong_ answer, in Bercow's eyes.

"Well done. It is also incredibly irritating. Furthermore, it conveys the impression that you are more interested in Punch and Judy politics than in your own policies, a misapprehension I am sure you will wish to clear up by confining your speeches to relevant points of debate in future."

Down came the birch again. Michael was ready for it this time, insofar as he could ever be ready for the sensation that his backside had been doused in flaming petrol. He managed to take the three strokes with no more than a low moan to reveal his pain.

"On a related subject, what is the appropriate response to a question from one of your parliamentary colleagues?"

Michael was completely lost, and he didn't think it was entirely attributable to the distraction of his throbbing arse. "Erm. To answer it?"

"Correct. That is why we call it 'Education Questions' and not 'Education Stump Speeches Tangentially Related to Members' Questions'. When the question is a party political one then of course you are welcome to say whatever you please, but factual questions, even factual questions about unpopular policies, deserve factual answers, not a jeremiad about the Opposition's record in office. Likewise, written questions submitted to your ministry deserve a prompt and complete reply. I will not rebuke you for violations of the Ministerial Code- for one thing, I would need to make a second birch, and more importantly it falls outside my remit- but this is a dereliction of your duties to the House as well as your duties to the Government. Why?"

Michael didn't even think he was guilty of most of that, but he somehow doubted Bercow would be interested in hearing an appeal of his verdict. Challenging him on the length of Ed Ball's speeches hadn't exactly gone over well. He seemed all too willing to let the birch win his arguments for him, and the idea of earning himself any extra strokes made Michael nauseous with fear, so he swallowed his pride and gave the Speaker the answer he wanted.

"It is my duty as a Minister to inform Parliament about the policies of my department as comprehensively as possible and in a timely manner."

"Good."

It wasn't good enough to spare Michael three more sharp cuts of the birch. The pain in his battered arse no longer seemed to recede between blows; it just increased and then increased again with the next stroke. On the third Michael's vision went white for a moment, and there was a ringing in his ears. It took him a few seconds to figure out that it was the echo of his own scream.

Bercow was talking again; he must have mistaken Michael's shocked stupor for recovery. Michael missed most of what he said, but from the expectant pause at the end he deduced he was meant to volunteer another crime.

"Not supplying the BSF lists before my statement?" he croaked. That was double jeopardy, he'd already apologized for that to the entire House, but fairness did not seem to be a prominent feature of this punishment. And it was the only thing that came to mind.

"That was symptomatic of a more general problem, yes. You apologized very graciously for that oversight, and I have no doubt you sincerely regret your mistake, and the errors in the lists. However, neither mistake would have been made in the first place if you had approached your statement with the proper attitude, namely, that the purpose behind it was to notify the House about the policy of your department, not to score political points against the Opposition. It is readily apparent to anyone who gives the matter five seconds thought that honorable Members would need a complete and accurate list of the affected schools _in advance_ if they were to ask informed questions about the policy. That you did not spare those five seconds for your colleagues speaks very poorly of you, Mr. Gove.

"On the related matter of releasing information to the media before it is reported to the House. When it happened with the BSF lists you said you were not aware of it, and I take you at your word, but it has happened subsequently, and as I said at the time you _ought_ to have been aware of it. Again, it demonstrates a critical failure of priorities. Your obligation is to win the debate on policy in the House, not in the papers, and to that end you _must_ make your statements to the House before you give them to the press, and they must be complete statements containing all the information honorable Members require to assess your policies, not party political stump speeches.

"This problem seems to be endemic throughout your Government, and I am rapidly losing my patience with it. You may take this message to the Prime Minister at your next Cabinet meeting. If the Blair Government, which one understands was more or less run by Alastair Campbell, nevertheless managed to issue ministerial statements to the House before briefing the press, there is absolutely no reason why the current Government cannot extend Parliament the same courtesy. It is not merely a question of good manners, it is an egregious breach of privilege, and if your fellow ministers do not wish to join you across my desk they must take more care in the future."

Bercow seemed to have given up asking him questions. Perhaps he thought that Michael did not know the answers to these ones. It came as something of a relief; he took the opportunity to rest his head on his arm and listen in peaceful misery as the Speaker raked him over the coals. He would take infinite bollockings over being swished again. All too soon, though, Bercow ran out of grievances and down came the birch. In between screaming and choking on his sobs and trying to remember how to breathe Michael lost count of the strokes, but it felt like more than three. It felt like a hundred.

"Well?" Bercow asked, when Michael's sobbing had diminished to a sort of background static.

Michael struggled to remember something else he might have done, or indeed a time when he had not been bent over Bercow's desk in excruciating pain. But the only thing he could seem to remember was that he would get an extra stroke if he couldn't come up with anything.

"Please, Mr. Speaker, I honestly don't know," he whimpered. Somehow this one blow which he might have avoided seemed more dreadful than all the others he'd had no choice but to take, but his rattled brain simply refused to supply him with an answer. Bercow sighed and sliced into him again. It was every bit as awful as he'd imagined.

Parliamentary procedure, Mr. Gove. Why, I wonder, after five years in the House do you continuously slip into the second person, into referring to honorable Members by name, into so many little breaches of our code of etiquette? Of course we expect such errors of new Members, but you have had five years to learn the rules, Mr. Gove. An experienced parliamentarian, especially one of your intelligence, ought not to be making such elementary mistakes with such frustrating regularity. Well? Any explanation?"

"I don't mean to! It's accidental!"

"I'm not ascribing any malice to you in this respect, Mr. Gove, I am merely curious why you seem to be so accident-prone."

"I don't know," Michael admitted miserably, wondering if he'd doomed himself to another extra stroke.

"I do. It's carelessness. You slip up because you put no effort into _not_ slipping up. Your attention is so focused on rebutting your opponents that you cannot spare any for observing the courtesies of the House, which is not surprising, because these procedures exist precisely to prevent the sort of personalized dueling you seem determined to engage in. They are a warning buoy to keep you off the rocks, and you, more than any other Member, need to pay heed to them."

Another three strokes of the birch added force to the Speaker's advice, although by this point Michael could scarcely remember his own name, much less any instructions he was receiving. The tiny fragment of his brain still capable of rational thought was occupied by a frantic attempt to come up with another mistake he'd made before Bercow prompted him again.

"Arrogance?" he offered, when it seemed Bercow had finished punishing him for the heinous crime of using the second person. The Opposition were always accusing him of it, at any rate.

Bercow chuckled. "You could certainly do with a dose of humility, but that's not a breach of privilege. If I had to punish Members for arrogance, I wouldn't have time for anything else! Try again; you're quite close."

"My- my bad attitude?" Michael ventured. That was vague enough to cover a number of evils.

"Conveniently open ended, but I'll take it," Bercow said. Michael sagged against the desk with relief. "Your high opinion of yourself is your own business, but your low opinion of the rest of us is mine. Your disrespect for my office and your constant provocation of your colleagues has overstepped the bounds of acceptable parliamentary practice. When I make a ruling, I expect compliance, not a disingenuous expression of gratitude and immediate recidivism. And while I of course welcome a healthy spirit of debate and differences of opinion and I applaud your robust defense of your Government and your policy, there is a line, and you have not so much crossed it as gone sailing over it with glee and panache. The patronizing compliments and the snide insults have exceeded all good taste, and your criticism of the previous Government has repeatedly slid into questioning their good motives, which you know quite well is beyond the pale. Tone it down, Mr. Gove. If I must ask you to retract unparliamentary language again, you are going to be very sorry indeed."

He was very sorry _now_ , and Bercow made him more so. Michael's counting abilities had been reduced to those of a Discword troll- 'One, two, many, lots'- and the rain of blows that followed the Speaker's pronouncement fell easily into the 'lots' category. The blaze of agony across his backside was indescribable, and he quickly lost his vision, his hearing, every sense except pain. He was lost in a white, silent word where there was nothing but suffering and the relentless blows of the birch, which he felt now only as a light pressure amidst the inferno. He'd maxed out his nociceptors; he couldn't hurt any worse than he already did.

It seemed a very long time before the color washed back into his surroundings. He became dimly aware of a soft ticking noise, which after a few seconds he realized must be his watch, sitting on his outstretched wrist a foot in front of his nose. It was the only sound in the room. He wasn't even crying anymore, although his face was slimy with snot and tears.

Bercow touched his back lightly. "That will do for now, I think. You may stand up, if you like."

Michael should have been relieved to learn that his ordeal was over, but he was too stupefied by pain to muster much enthusiasm. The prospect of movement was appalling. He tried to release his death grip on the far edge of the desk and found that his fingers wouldn't obey him. By stretching his arms he managed to unhook himself from the desk, but his fingers remained in crabbed little claws, resisting his efforts to flex them.

The watch ticked. Tears dripped off his chin.

"Would you like a tissue, Mr. Gove?" Bercow asked.

"I have a handkerchief." It was in his trousers. They seemed very far away. He dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, wiped a crooked finger across his nose, and stood up carefully. Every movement hurt. Bercow, standing to one side, watched him benevolently and said nothing, and Michael found himself absurdly grateful to be given so much time to compose himself. He bent down to retrieve his handkerchief and on the second try managed to reach far enough to stick his hand in his pocket and grab it, with only an embarrassing whimper to betray the agony this caused him. Standing up again was just as bad, and he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and wish he was dead, or had a paralyzing spinal injury that made it impossible to feel anything from the waist down, before he set about wiping away the tears and snot that were smeared stickily across his face.

He felt better after that. His arse was still an unspeakable torment, although the pain must have been abating slightly, because he could feel it throbbing now in time with his heartbeat, sending pulses of agony through his body like the epicenter of an earthquake. That meant, theoretically, that in between the pulses it must have been hurting less, although Michael couldn't claim to feel any benefit from it. But at least with his face wiped clean he felt less grubby, more like a minister again.

While Michael cleaned himself up Bercow came around his desk and sat down again, setting down the birch to the right of the blotter. Michael found his eyes drawn to it with a certain dread, but somehow it did not appear to be drenched in blood, although the branches did seem a little battered. Maybe he had some skin left after all. Bercow was still watching him in benevolent silence, but he had an air of expectation now. Michael remembered his manners.

"I'm very grateful for your correction, Mr. Speaker," he said, and offered his hand. It was easier to say than he'd expected it to be. The birch put everything into perspective, as it was meant to do, Michael supposed. Any humiliation seemed trivial in light of the pain radiating through his body from his welted arse.

Bercow clasped his hand and shook it gravely. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Gove. You took your punishment rather bravely once you stopped trying to wriggle out of it."

Had he really? He'd cried like a baby; he thought he'd made an utter fool of himself. Michael felt a little of his blood divert itself from his bum to his cheeks at the unexpected compliment.

"I'm sorry I made such a fuss in the beginning."

Bercow smiled ruefully. "You weren't that bad. Betty Boothroyd tells me she once had to argue with Peter Mandelson for three hours. Now, we have one final item of business, and then I will release you. No doubt you are eager to attend to your ministerial boxes."

He pulled from his desk a thick book bound in black leather, and opened it to the page marked by the ribbon. Reaching down to the jar of pens he extracted a biro, and spinning the book around on its spine to put it right-side-up to Michael he pushed both items across the desk to him.

"Sign across from your name, if you'd be so good. Er, you may want to pull up your trousers first."

Michael remembered belatedly that he was still in a state of undress, and blushed. Fortunately his erection had subsided sometime during the beating, so he wasn't giving Bercow a view of anything more embarrassing than his limp dick. He reached gingerly behind him, wondering how on Earth he was meant to pull his pants up over an arse that must be swollen to the size of a small watermelon, if not actually sliced into bloody ribbons by the cruel attentions of the birch.

But when he ran his fingers over it, he found it extremely tender to the touch but topographically speaking roughly the same as it had always been. It seemed to be approximately its usual size, and he couldn't find any breaks in the skin, or any damp or sticky patches to indicate a cut. He could barely even feel the welts. They were there, a faint cross-hatch of raised lines, but if he hadn't known to look for them he doubted he would have noticed.

He reached down and pulled his pants up, doing everything in his power to keep the elastic waistband clear of his skin. They chafed a bit, but it was much less painful than he'd expected. Moving hurt more than than the pressure of the fabric, and they protected his raw skin so that when he went to pull his trousers up a few seconds later it scarcely added to his misery at all. He tucked his shirt in and buckled his belt in a haze of relieved bewilderment. Maybe he wouldn't need to go to hospital after all.

Having successfully dressed himself, Michael turned his attention to Bercow's book, which contained a few ruled columns- date, Speaker, Speaker's signature, Member, Member's signature, reason for punishment. Bercow had, in his arrogance, filled in the entire thing before their meeting except for Michael's signature, in blue pen. Not a shade of doubt that Michael would defy him and refuse the beating, the smug bastard. He had very nearly run out of room in the 'reason for punishment' box listing Michael's crimes; the flowing scribble of his hand turned almost microscopic in the final rows.

Michael smirked to himself, he supposed there was a certain honor in that. The fellow above him just had 'Unparliamentary Language.'

He was about to sign when he noticed the name above his in the register, attached to 'Unparliamentary Language.' He stared at it incredulously.

"Dennis Skinner let you hit him?"

"That was under Michael Martin's tenure, you'll see. Yes, that stunned me too. But I'm told he's always taken his punishments with surprisingly good grace. It's his job to make trouble and the Speaker's job to sort it, he says." Bercow smiled. "I confess, I'm glad I have not had to put his good nature to the test."

"So I was your first," Michael realized.

"Yes. I didn't want to resort to it at all, you know. Barbaric practice, really, terribly anachronistic in this day and age. But you'll make a traditionalist of me yet, Mr. Gove."

Michael signed his name with a flourish. "In that case, I think you should wear the wig tomorrow, Mr. Speaker. If I have to squirm around on those hard benches during PMQs it's only fair. I should tell you you're extremely effective, for a beginner."

"I'll take that suggestion under advisement," said Bercow, in a tone that indicated he wouldn't. "Off you go now, and please don't force me to do this again. It may surprise you to hear this, but I don't like to see you so distressed." He patted Michael's hand, and took back the pen and record book.

"I can assure you, Mr. Speaker, I'll be on my very best behavior." At least until his bum healed, Michael thought to himself, and probably after that. Given the condition he'd been in three minutes ago, he was astounded by the speed of his recovery- by now the pain had receded to the point where he almost dared to touch his arse and try to rub away some of the soreness- but the white-hot agony of the punishment itself was still fresh in his mind. He never wanted to experience pain like that again, and having flogged him once he suspected Bercow would be far quicker to reach for the birch in future. Hadn't he said as much to Burnham? The Speaker was changing the rules, and they would change with him or else. Michael shot the tattered birch a final wary glare and limped out of Bercow's office.

Michael closed the door behind him and was about to clutch his arse and make a try at rubbing when he spotted Andy Burnham sitting on the bench beside the door, eyeing him with his arms folded and a vindictive smirk plastered across his pretty face. He stood up, to all appearances entirely unashamed to be caught eavesdropping.

It was a sad commentary on Michael's childhood, he thought, that he knew immediately why Burnham was lurking outside the door.

"Taped that on your phone, did you?"

Burnham grinned. "Yep."

"So you could send it to Balls?" He was too exhausted and emotionally wrung out even to be mortified, although he knew that by tomorrow the mental image of the pair of them sniggering over the MP3 would haunt his nightmares.

Burnham's grin widened. "Yep."

"I am ecstatic to discover that my colleagues in the Shadow Cabinet are using their time so constructively," Michael said.

"You know how it is in Opposition," Burnham said with a shrug, apparently unruffled by this incisive criticism. "You all right to get home?"

"Yes, thank you. I am a minister, you know- we get cars."

"Right, 'cause it's okay to scrap Sure Start but God forbid any of you wankers take the Tube. Cheerio, then."

Burnham strolled breezily off before Michael could correct any of the factual inaccuracies in that statement, beginning with how they were not, in fact, scrapping Sure Start and ending with how there was nothing particularly cheery about their parting. Shaking his head, he waited a few minutes for Burnham to round the corner and then gave his poor bum a good rub- it did help relieve the soreness, slightly- and started off after him. There was only one route out of the building, and he wasn't going to hobble at Burnham's heels the whole way like some sort of Dickensian cripple.

What a day. Still, his enemies were going to find him bloodied but unbowed. If Bercow thought Michael was going to be put off by a bit of corporal punishment he had another think coming. The Speaker might have upped the ante in their contest of wills, but Michael still had a few of his own cards to play, and from now on it was _war_. He wasn't going to give Bercow any excuse to flog him; that birching had been fucking awful and he never wanted another. But he could make plenty of trouble without setting a toe outside the lines. Before this was over, he'd have Bercow sacked and himself in line for the premiership. As for Burnham, lurking outside doorways to eavesdrop on someone else's punishment was about as low and ungentlemanly as one could get. Michael had been going easy on him since he was so clearly outclassed, but from now on the little tosser was entitled to no mercy at all.

As soon as his head cleared he would begin plotting his revenge.


End file.
